


Bury My Sins Down By The Sea

by ingenious_spark, Leitiko



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Briefly Taken Captive, Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, Illustrated Work, Implied/Referenced Canonical Character Death, Laws and Customs Among the Eldar, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Post-War of Wrath, Recovery, Talking, The Avari, are not universal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 07:44:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20386159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingenious_spark/pseuds/ingenious_spark, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leitiko/pseuds/Leitiko
Summary: Wandering along the seashore singing an unceasing lament for what his people had become and what they had done was supposed to be the last line for Maglor, son of Fëanor.When he accidentally trespasses on Avarin territory, they take him briefly hostage in order to ensure that he will lead no war parties to them. Among their people, thrust headfirst into a culture completely alien to him, Maglor learns quickly exactly how different they are. Despite all their differences, he still finds kinship with Denethor of the Laiquendi, and the comfort of a connection helps him open his heart again at long last.





	Bury My Sins Down By The Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Written and illustrated for the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2019
> 
> Written by ingenious_spark/@oopsbirdficced  
Illustrated by Leitiko/@leitiko-art
> 
> A note before I begin: in this fic the LaCE are not universal. They're more a Valinor-only thing. The Avari/Lindi elves have their own customs, and that is reflected here. 
> 
> Also, there are scenes where a character is taken captive, and I assure you there will be absolutely no stockholm syndrome in this fic. 
> 
> Lastly, I try to show Macalaurë here with a realistic depiction of depression, because that is how I feel he would end up after everything. Please take that in mind and take care of yourselves, my dear readers.
> 
> And please enjoy!

The sea was too close and Beleriand was drowned. He stared blankly at the waters, noting several camps along the new shoreline. How many drowned in the waters? Did the Valar even care about those who hadn't participated in the War? Had they been evacuated, too? How long had it taken?

His faith was shaken. Perhaps it was better to say that it remained shaken.

It had taken quite a battering through his life. Hope seemed a distant, far-off thing. Not for him. Not after everything that had happened. 

He did see camps, though, set up along the new shoreline, above the high tide mark. Some were huge, obviously those of the armies who fought in the War. More heartening were the small camps, the ramshackle constructs made for easy transport, sized for a family unit or two at a time, wedged into nooks and crannies. It meant the ones who hadn't fought had been given the chance to flee after all. He hoped so, at least.

Pain flared through his hand, physical pain reminded by emotional, and he looked down again at his burden. It had burned through his glove, straight into his flesh. 

Anger consumed him so abruptly it made him breathless. 

"Was it worth it you cursed, _ wretched _ thing?" He snarled, uncaring that the target of his ire was an inanimate object incapable of answering. Anger sang along his nerves until he thought he might be set ablaze with it. Anger took him down to the shoreline, into the water up to his knees. Anger threw the shining stone as far as he could hurl it, into the waters, a fortuitous breeze pushing it farther than he could throw it himself. 

But it was grief that made him think about throwing himself in after. 

With how many of his family had died to fire, wouldn't it be poetic to die in water, instead? He stood there for a long time, before he registered the fact that it felt like the water was trying to push him back to shore. A small mercy, he supposed, from the one who loved life so much, and had been forced to snuff so much of it out. 

He walked back to shore, and for a long moment stared up at the immense refugee camps. 

No. He couldn't. It would be better for them to think him dead. He didn't deserve to be surrounded by life, and people. Not after he and his kin had caused so much tragedy. He had to repent, far away, where no one would be able to be hurt by him again. He would give his penance to the sea, and maybe someday be able to give his life in a meaningful way. 

Though he would definitely be stealing some new gloves on his way around.

* * *

Beyond the solitary, sorrowful figure on the beach, another stole through the war camps on the shoreline. He spoke quietly to the outliers in the camp, those that seemed unrestful and out of place. These recent arrivals to the shore had been picked up during the mass exodus, unsettled by their sudden proximity to this many people. Soon enough he slipped out of camp, those he talked to departing quietly. He slid along the shoreline, visiting the small, ramshackle camps. He spoke to them, giving reassurance to the frightened and the displaced. His desperate plan to get his people out of harm's way had worked, and he was pleased by it. 

He had seen to it that the majority of Lenwë's people had not perished in the waters. Now he would guide them away from the homes of the Lost Ones, who brought only disaster in their wake. 

They would go back and find their kin, perhaps in the Vales of the Anduin. Since the Lost Ones were likely to come inland, maybe they would go further, and rejoin Morwë and Nurwë's people. Whatever the case, he had a duty to see it through, and one he would faithfully fulfill.

* * *

Thor listened to his surroundings while carefully cutting feathers with a small knife. His fellow scouts were out and about, leaving him to mind their camp. They had settled on an area for the festival, and now it was just the work of seeing that it was secure and no enemies would stumble upon it. They had been out here for nearly a month though, and they were just about to send word to the clans that they had a suitable spot. 

"There's someone on the beach," someone said.

Thor looked up, concerned, and it was Helin who had spoken, back early from patrol. Someone on the beach wasn't normally cause for that kind of tone, which meant this area might not be safe after all. Damn, that would delay the festival at least another month. Helin looked deeply worried. Cendano slid out of the underbrush on silent feet, coming to her side and resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. 

"Who is it?" Thor asked calmly. He stood, tucking his fletching tools back in his pouch and quiver, and his small knife in the sheath on his calf. 

"I don't know. They're wearing red armor, and it's got the Dark Star on it. I didn't stick around to try to check their eyes." Helin said nervously. Thor nibbled his lip, tucking his bow away and fingering the hilt of his dwarf-make dagger. 

"They could be a scout," Cendano offered, his calm frayed around the edges now. The Dark Star was bad news. In their collective experience, only one elf bearing that sigil had ever been friend to their people, and he'd still betrayed their Sindar cousins in Doriath.

"They could," Thor agreed quietly, making sure their supplies were secured in hidden caches. The best scout camp looked like just another patch of forest, after all. He nodded with satisfaction once everything was in place. "Helin, rope," he murmured softly, and she nodded, pulling out a coil of hempen rope and keeping it close to hand. Her grip on the ornately carved ironwood haft of her spear was tight, knuckles paled from her grip. Helin was from Beleriand, originally, with a Sindar father who had died in Doriath, according to her mother. She'd seen the destruction first hand. "Follow my lead," He murmured. 

He stole quietly down out of the trees and to the seaside. There was only one pocket on this stretch of the coastline that dipped from the cliffs enough to be considered a beach, after all. There were boulders aplenty to conceal himself behind as he inspected the interloper. Elven too, from the looks of it. Sheathed sword at their hip, and donning red-patinaed metal and black-dyed leather armor. The stranger knelt in the black sand, a worn leather satchel by their side. Their dark hair was swept over one shoulder to the front, revealing a sigil painted with fine lines in a pale shade. They wore some darkened copper or brass jewelry with a headpiece commanding Thor’s attention in particular. Such an adornment, to Thor’s knowledge, was a sign of high standing. But, it was always difficult to tell with those folk. Faint threads of sound on the wind caught his ear- something soft and heart wrenching, a sung lament of the most heartbreaking kind. 

He tightened his grip on the dagger. As the wind picked up a little more, he danced across the sand to deliver a strike of his pommel to the back of the elf's neck.

Thor caught them as they fell down, and Helin moved in to quickly bind their hands and unbuckle their sword. Cendano offered some scraps of cloth to blindfold and gag them. Thor hoisted them up over his shoulders after sheathing his dagger, Cendano taking both sword and satchel.

"There's a hunter's station not far from here." Cendano offered softly, and Thor nodded. It was a fast trip, though getting the somewhat wiggly elf up the tree in question was a bit of a chore, as they woke before reaching their destination. Soon though, Thor dropped the elf on a wood platform built high in the trees. A slightly mangled pelt over bare planks served as the only nod to comfort on this waystation. Helin pulled the strange elf upright into a kneeling position, and removed both gag and blindfold. Thor pulled out his dagger again and knelt to their captive’s level. 

Behind him he heard a rasp of metal and leather, and glanced over his shoulder to see Cendano unsheathe the stranger's sword. He set aside the sheath to examine moon-pale metal, a profound contrast to their own brassy-golden dwarvish blades. 

"What do you want with me?" The stranger's voice was deep and melodic, albeit a little rough at the moment. Thor brought his dagger up close to the stranger's face.

"I want to know who you scout for and where they are," he said calmly. The elf looked confused.

"Scout? I'm not a scout." They protested. Thor gave them a dry look, pressing the tip of his dagger into the skin of their jaw. Blood welled up from the small cut, and the elf started to look frightened, in a strangely weary way.

"The size and location of your war party." He demanded. 

"I'm not a scout! There is no war party! I'm _ alone _." They replied. The claim sounded spoken in earnest to Thor, though travelling alone in this world was a dangerous prospect. Almost suicidal. 

He glanced over to Helin, who looked troubled still. 

"You bear the Dark Star, Lost One." He said, lowering his dagger. The eerie internal luminescence of the elf’s eyes gave them away. It wasn't the proper, reflective tapetum lucidum, but a true light. It was unsettling. "Those who wear the Star bring chaos in their wake." It was a gentle way to phrase it- bloodshed and death would be more accurate, and Helin gave him an annoyed look over it. The stranger flinched.

"Do you mean… the star of my house?" They asked, sounding strangely small. "It's the crest of my family. My father's chosen sigil." Thor shrugged. 

"I know not what significance you place on that symbol. I only know it's a warning sign for my people. It's a harbinger of death and destruction to us." He said baldly, though he felt a small amount of pity for how upset the elf looked at that. He sighed. "I tell you this so you might understand when I say we cannot trust you. We must keep you with us until we know you speak the truth, and only then will we turn you loose." Helin growled softly. Thor looked up at her, eyebrow arched.

"I say we should turn him over to the Mother's mercy." She pressed, voice tight. "It was his kin that destroyed Doriath and slew my father's kin." Cendano sheathed the sword again, setting it down on the floor. 

"Helin, vengeance is a poison." Cendano said softly. "You didn't even know your father or his kin. You are Lindi, not Sindar." 

"Does it _ matter _ ? They say the Dark Star is the sigil of their house. That's a family, isn't it? Which means _ their _ family destroyed Doriath and killed countless other elves!" Helin was well and truly losing her temper, and while Thor didn't blame her, this was not an ideal time to do so. 

"Helin," he said sternly, "go hunt for dinner." Helin snarled at him viciously, but left, clearly disgusted by the entire situation. The stranger's head was bowed, their shoulders slumped. 

"I will face her judgement." They said softly. Thor exchanged a puzzled look with Cendano. 

"What do you mean?" Thor asked. 

"This 'mother's mercy'. She's right. I fought at Doriath. I killed her kin. She should have the right to choose my punishment." They said, almost stubbornly. Thor frowned down at them. 

"Listen- what's your name?" He asked with a sigh. 

"I go by Maglor, here." They said. Thor frowned. 

"I didn't ask you what you went by. I asked for your name." He pointed out.

"…Canafinwë Macalaurë Fëanárion, then." They said. Thor frowned again, but this time it was more reflexive, confused at the sheer complexity of the Lost Ones' naming conventions.

"That makes you Canafinwë, child of Fëanáro, right?" He asked after puzzling it over for a moment. Canafinwë shook his head.

"Macalaurë, son of Fëanáro." He corrects gently. Well, Thor supposed if you had two names you could pick which one you liked better. 

"I am Denethor, son of Ealygn, and this is Cendano, son of Yarha. Though I suppose our father's names would mean more to you. You Lost Ones honor your fathers with your names, don't you?" He asked curiously. Cendano cleared his throat softly, and Thor realized he was getting off track. "Ah, yes. You asked about the Mother's mercy. You owe Helin blood-guilt, that's true. But you can't cast someone on the Mother's mercy without first calling a clan meeting. That's a very grave punishment." 

"What is it?" Macalaurë asked. Thor rubbed his chin.

"When one is to be punished in that way, it means that the healers and the dreamseers believe there is nothing left in a person to save. It's always a difficult decision, which is why no one person makes it, but rather the whole community. It's reserved for kinslayers almost exclusively. The person accused of the crime is bound hand and foot and taken to an area we know to be clear of yrc. Then we leave them there. Either they're able to free themselves of their bonds with the Mother's mercy, or they fall prey to the judgement of the wild and perish," Thor explained practically.

"Kinslayers?" Macalaurë looked startled. Strange from one who participated in such a thing. 

"Yes. We rescue people, or they escape and we find them. Some of them can heal- most of them, actually- but some of them are too far gone. If they kill another person purposefully, and especially if they engage in cannibalism, there is nothing left to save." Thor explained. Macalaurë looked stricken. 

"Rescue people?" He asked, voice a bare whisper. Thor nodded. 

"From Dunspenn's pits. I think your folk call him Morgoth. Or Þauron?"

"They're two different evils. Morgoth is- _ was _\- the more powerful. Þauron was his second-in-command." Macalaurë explained, the response sounding automatic. Thor shrugged. 

"To us, they are the same," he said simply. "Though it's always struck me as strange. How you could participate in kinslaying and stay sane. How you could kill like that and _ not _ turn into an urc?" He mused softly. 

Macalaurë stared at him, stricken again. His expression bore a mingling of grief and regret and pain before he bowed his head, thick dark hair slipping forward to curtain his face. Thor sighed, refusing to apologize for his curiosity. It was a perfectly valid question, no matter how blunt or upsetting. He turned away from their captive to Cendano, putting that conversation to rest.

"I will begin the scouting," he told Cendano. "Stay here with him to make sure Helin doesn't do anything she will regret. I won't be longer than a week. If I am, you will know something has happened." Cendano nodded, and Thor swung himself easily down from the tree, heading back out to the beach. 

It was easy to track Macalaurë's footsteps. He'd taken no pains to hide them. He'd followed the beach for a long way. Stopped here, made camp there. Thor tracked for a full two days, yet he saw no sign of a host of the Lost. No sign that he had told them anything but the truth. Strange.

Thor made his way back swiftly as he could. When he swung back up to the hunter's post, he was gratified to see that someone had re-tied Macalaurë's hands in front of himself and given him slack between them to take care of himself and eat. 

"I have seen no signs that he lied to us," he said softly to Helin, and she eyed him with naked disbelief. Thor shrugged, falling on the food Cendano passed him eagerly. "I followed his trail for two days and I saw no sign of anything. He barely covered his tracks. I don’t think wast trying to at all, in fact. Additionally, I saw no sign of a host." 

"Should we send word that the festival can take place after all? It would be ill luck to have to delay it past the appointed time," Cendano asked softly, his thick black braids shifting together as he shook his head gently. Thor fingered one of his own thinner braids, toying with a brass bead. 

"I believe him." Thor said quietly, meeting first Cendano, then Helin's eyes with a serious conviction. "Send word. We can still hold the festival here." 

Helin's mouth took a stubborn cast, but she nodded. She and Cendano set about murmuring to their bird-friends to bring word to the clans that this place would be their festival grounds. Thor sat down beside Macalaurë with a sigh, finishing off his meal. 

"Thank you. For believing me," Macalaurë said, his voice nearly stolen by the breeze. Thor offered him a small smile. 

"I may be foolhardy, but usually I've a good sense about people."

"Foolhardy? What makes you foolhardy?" Macalaurë asked, looking faintly startled. Thor gave him a long, considering look.

"Ask me again later." He said, shrugging lightly. "It has to do with a very personal failure." 

"Very well." Macalaurë looked bemused, then suspicious. "What do you mean by later? Will you not release me?" Thor applauded his alacrity internally. 

"No, we will release you after the festival is over. Just in case I am wrong and you are indeed some kind of scout," he declared, and Helin looked over with a soft huff.

"Small mercy. I am glad to see you haven't wholly taken leave of your senses," She muttered, faintly bitter. Thor nodded to her. Macalaurë sighed heavily. 

"I suppose that does make sense." He murmured, rubbing at his wrists beneath the rope. They were protected by his gloves, but the ropes were still tight around them. 

"We may as well unbind you. Though mind, you won't be unaccompanied, and if you try to run, take heed. We know these forests much better than you, I wager," he warned, before untying the rope and handing it back to Helin. Macalaurë gave a soft sigh of relief. 

"Thank you," he murmured softly. Thor nodded, and went to assist the other two.

* * *

Macalaurë quietly observed his new, if slightly unwilling, companions. The preparations for this upcoming festival seemed rather minimal. Though, there _ were _ only three of them; four, when they pressed him into service. The preparations seemed to mainly consist of shaking down trees for loose branches, and clearing a large firepit. To top it off, there was _ constant _ patrolling. It made sense; from what little he'd been able to gather of their culture, they seemed to be under near constant threat from orcs, and their armor seemed strangely sub-par- just hardened, layered, molded leather. Macalaurë could tell that what metal weapons they had were all of dwarves make, and none carried one larger than Thor's long knife. That is, unless you counted the beautiful haft of Helin's spear.

These were Avarin elves, from what he could tell. Still they were clinging to their old ways and afraid of strangers. Though, Macalaurë admitted to himself, bitter in his thoughts, they had a right to be. What had the Ñoldor brought but death and destruction?. Framed like that, Macalaurë felt almost ashamed of his people. 

They didn't call themselves Avari, though. They called themselves _ Lindi _. 

The Singers.

It rang a deep chord with Macalaurë, who had once been lauded as the best musician in Valinor, before they came here to Endorë, and all of his musical talent was quickly consumed by funeral dirges and war and lament.

When had it come to this?

His discomfort increased when the people turned up and _ never stopped coming _. The area was turned into a tent city. Yet the tents themselves weren't colorful, not like the Ñoldor would have. They were well crafted though, of wood and canvas dyed dappled browns and greens. And everywhere, it seems, little doses of color are showing up. Every tent had at least one colorful waxed-paper lantern, though none of them were lit. Like they were waiting for something that would permit them show off their colors.

Macalaurë was already in plain clothing, wearing simply his black leather breeches and a soft rosy tunic. His armor was put away so he wouldn't scare these folk. Helin was swept away first into the fold of a family unit, and Cendano explained that all three of them hailed from different clans, and had been teamed together to find a place for the festival. Cendano went next, to a family that all had his long, heavy black hair.

Macalaurë dithered, wondering if he would be left in the hunter's shack, the kindest word he could use for it. Instead, Thor dragged him down to earth when he saw a contingent of elves like him- warm, nut-brown skin and hair a darker brown, decorated with brassy jewelry. Macalaurë had thought Thor's piercings- a nose ring and a stud through the center of his lower lip- rather racy, but it seemed to be normal for this family, Thor's family. 

"Mother," Thor greeted warmly, falling into the arms of a woman that shared his sharp amber-gold eyes. She embraced him fiercely, and then a man embraced the both of them, his hair shaved and braided to a similar style as Thor's. "Father!" Thor greeted, equally warm. 

"Who's this, Denethor?" The man asked, when they finally released him. He inspected Macalaurë, and there was a faint puzzled light of recognition in his eyes. He fidgeted, trying to think of who Thor's father would recognize in him. It had always been said that he most resembled his grandfather Finwë, after all. But how would this Avarin, this Lindi elf, know his grandfather?

"This is Macalaurë. He'll be our guest for the festival." Thor paused and dropped his voice to a murmur. "He's of the Lost. The one I told you of." 

There was another thing he kept meaning to ask about. The Lost, they called him, and presumably the rest of the Ñoldor. Lost to what? Lost to the Valar? Lost from the Lindi? He needed to ask at some point. He was afraid to do so however, feeling that his position with them was precarious. Though apparently less so than he had assumed if Thor was going to house Macalaurë with his own family. 

"This is my mother, Ealgyn, and my father Denweg," Thor told him brightly. Macalaurë bowed, pushing his hair behind an ear nervously. 

"Ah! That's who you remind me of! Little Finwë." Denweg said heartily, and Macalaurë turned wide, shocked eyes on him. 

"You knew my grandfather?" He choked out softly. Denweg's smile softened, and he rested a heavy hand on Macalaurë's shoulder. 

"Oh, aye. A bit stuffy, he was, but a good friend. He may have told you of me, though he would have used the name Lenwë if he did," Macalaurë's mouth fell open in shock.

"Ah- my lord!" He bowed again, a touch frantic. Thor looked confused, and Macalaurë suddenly realized who he was- Denethor, king of the _ Laiquendi _. Who apparently thought himself a fool- no, foolhardy. There was a difference. Macalaurë didn't understand it- Denethor was lauded as a brave commander, and a loyal friend of the Sindar. The way his Laiquendi forces had been ill-prepared for the fighting hadn't been his fault. Then again, perhaps he and his people didn't see it that way. 

"Oh Finwë," Denweg muttered under his breath. "Up you get, boy. We've no kinds of lords. Our community is led by councils. By everyone. We come together and speak about our issues, and come to a consensus that satisfies as many people as possible." Macalaurë felt off kilter at that. It sounded so strange. He reasoned, however, that it could be seen as an expanded council of lords? Though how would they get anything done?

"Yes, my, ah, Len- I mean, Denweg?" He offered weakly, stumbling for the proper form of address. He couldn't remember feeling this awkward since he was a child. It was almost painful. Ealgyn laughed brightly. 

"Stop tormenting the boy, my loves. Come. You can share Thor's tent, since we didn't bring another." She ushered him away, and he slowly came down out of his mortification.

It rapidly returned once he got to the tent and slipped inside, finding only one bed. Bed was a generous term, at that. It was a raised mattress of moss and leaves with furs spread over it comfortably, big enough for two or even three if they got cozy. It looked more like a nest than a real bed. Macalaurë sat in a corner of the tent and tried not to hyperventilate. Maybe he could arrange it so he didn't need to sleep when Denethor did? Elves didn't need to sleep every night after all. The problem inherent there, though, was the fact that he hadn't been sleeping more than bare catnaps. Exhaustion gnawed at his bones and weighed his head heavy even now. 

Slowly he stood, regulating his breathing, and took off his soft leather slippers. His boots were part of his armor, after all, and stood out. Thor hadn't come in yet, so there was a decent chance he wouldn't. He removed his jewelry, stowing it in his small pack. Cendano had given Thor his sword, but Thor hadn't yet given it back to Macalaurë. That hurt, if only because it was the only thing he had left to remember his father by, but he could understand it. He set his pack close to hand and braided up his long, silken hair. For a long moment he watched the entrance of the tent before he finally laid down, body relaxing into the soft, earth-and-fur scented bed. 

Macalaurë thought nerves would keep him more awake, but sleep dragged him under with quick and greedy hands. 

He woke deeply groggy to warm darkness, though there were flickering lights beyond the tent. He stared sleepily at the tent wall for a while, trying to clobber his muscles into cooperation. 

After a moment, Macalaurë realized he wasn't alone. A warm breath brushed the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine, and an arm tightened a little where it was draped over his waist. His breathing hitched in his chest as a brief spike of terror paralyzed him. He glanced down, and saw Thor's hand, recognizable from the small scars on his fingers. His breathing evened back out. It made sense that Thor would be here. This was his tent. 

Macalaurë delicately lifted Thor's arm off of him and rolled off the bed, pulling his slippers back on and fleeing. 

Denweg was tending a small cookfire, and looked up when Macalaurë slipped out. 

"Alright there, little one?" He asked softly, and Macalaurë hesitated, before sitting beside him. 

"I just got startled, thank you," he murmured, glancing at Denweg from the corner of his eye and wondering. Denweg frowned faintly. 

"Do they not co-sleep where you come from?" He asked, sounding mildly confused. 

"Not with veritable strangers! Co-sleeping is reserved for parents and young children, spouses, and sometimes siblings, if they're close." Macalaurë explained, and Denweg nodded thoughtfully. 

"I'm afraid we don't have enough furs to make you up a decent bed of your own, but I could try to talk to my Denethor about _ not _ cuddling." He offered. Macalaurë flushed. 

"I've already put everyone so far out of their way just by existing. I hardly think that's fair." He muttered, drawing his fingers through his hair to help the remainder of his braid unravel before re-braiding it. 

"Here, let me help," Denweg offered and stood, vanishing off somewhere before returning with a bone comb, a bag of brass beads, and a leather hair tie. Macalaurë hesitated for a long moment. Having someone else do his hair felt like a luxury he didn't deserve, but it had been so long. He missed it. He turned his back to Denweg in silent acceptance, shaking his hair back over his shoulders. "You've your grandfather's hair, little one," Denweg murmured fondly, combing out the little tangles his fingers hadn't gotten. 

"I hadn't realized I looked that much like him," Macalaurë offered. Now that he was thinking about it, he recalled many favorable comparisons back when his family had been less fractured. Back when life was simpler and sweeter. Back in Valinor. 

"Oh aye. He's in your hair, though you've got some reddish highlights in here, not sure where those are from. He's also in the shape of your face, though you've someone else's eyes. The curve of your mouth, the shape of your hands. All folk are made up of their parents and ancestors, put together to make someone new and unique." Denweg braided thin braids from his temples, decorated with brass beads, until they joined a thicker braid that started high on his scalp. He tied off the end with the leather tie, and patted his shoulder. "You're all tied up in knots inside, my lad, I can see it in your eyes. If you'd let him, my Thor can help you. He already wants to." 

"Why?" Macalaurë asked, voice thick with unshed tears. Denweg smiled at him warmly, cupping his cheek in a heavily callused warm hand. 

"He likes a puzzle, my boy does. And he thinks you're pretty, and he wants to help. He always wants to help, poor lad. Even when it gets him into trouble." Denweg glanced towards Denethor's tent with warm, sad eyes.

"Even if it gets him killed?" Macalaurë asked in a bare whisper, eyes dark with worry and fear. Denweg looked even sadder.

"Ah, so you've heard of Denethor's Folly. He still thinks he needs to make up for that, my dear sweet Thor. But that's his tale to tell, my lad. Not mine. Now, how are you at cooking?" Denweg changed the subject abruptly, but Macalaurë blinked and went along. He could understand why. 

"Not amazing, but not horrible either. My bro- my family made sure I could take care of myself if I needed to," he said, trying not to physically flinch away from the reminder of Maitimo as it flashed across his mind's eye. "I did wish to ask you, sir, what is this festival? No one has told me yet." 

"Ah. Here, cut these up." Denweg instructed, handing him a bark board, a dwarvish-made knife, and a handful of green onions. He obeyed quietly, looking at Denweg curiously. "This is the Festival of Harvest Flame. A bit of a contradictory concept, I'm sure, but an important dual purpose. First of all, it’s to celebrate the early harvest, before too many of us get really busy with the actual business of harvesting. Additionally on that point, as harvest is about bounty and fertility, it’s a time for the clans to all get together so that those who'd like to can get together and propagate, or find someone or someones to settle down and marry. Either way, there's going to be a lot of sex, just warning you. Don't head for out of the way corners unless you're prepared to get invited to bed someone or join someone." Denweg laughed softly. Macalaurë thought he might die of mortification.

"But- do they even know each other? What about the courtship period? The _ engagement _?" He asked, eyes wide and face very, very red. He didn't know how to react to this. Denweg blinked, definitely confused. 

"I don't know what a courtship or an engagement is. Why don't you tell me?" He offered. Macalaurë tried very hard not to outright gape at the older elf. 

"Well, courtship is what happens after you meet an elf you'd like to spend time with. To decide if you'd like to get married. You go on outings together, and exchange gifts, and get to know each other over a period of months or years. Then, if you decide you're both compatible, you get your families together and announce your intent to marry. That's the engagement. After the engagement, traditionally in a year and a day, you hold the wedding ceremony, and are declared a wedded couple." Macalaurë tried to explain clearly and succinctly, as Denweg hummed thoughtfully. Food scented the air, and his stomach rumbled embarrassingly. 

"That's not how we do things. Life is fraught with danger, and there's always the chance it will be cut short. When we see someone we're taken with we bed with them. Sometimes it's a marriage, sometimes not. The getting to know each other process comes after marriage usually, and if it doesn't work out the marriage is dissolved. There's parties if you get married though. Generally speaking, it isn't anyone's business except for the parties involved. Still, try not to hold eye contact with anyone for prolonged periods of time. That's considered flirting. So is staring." Denweg laughed as Macalaurë immediately looked away, face red as a cherry. "Come now lad, I know you weren't flirting. There's a difference between paying attention to a lesson you haven't learned yet and flirting." He said easily, spooning food out into ceramic bowls. The pan he'd cooked in was ceramic too, Macalaurë noted. Did the Lindi have no metal craftwork? 

"Thank you. What, ah, what makes staring flirting, exactly?" He asked softly, taking a bite. "This is delicious, thank you," he added.

"You're welcome. And it's a kind of compliment. 'I find you so beautiful I can't tear my eyes from you'. That kind of thing." 

"Should I be jealous?" A soft, teasing voice cut through their conversation, and Macalaurë jerked his gaze up, seeing Ealgyn striding towards them easily. Denweg smiled at her, warm and loving. 

"Of course not, my love. I'd speak to you first. I was merely describing some of our customs to young Macalaurë here," he explained easily. 

Macalaurë devoted his attention to his food and puzzling over a few of the other things Denweg had spoken of. The dissolution of a marriage was unheard of, to him, as was a romantic relationship composed of more than two parties. Part of him wondered, quietly bitter, if many of his family's issues might have been solved if they did have one or both concepts. If Finwë had not been forced to choose between Míriel, dead, and Indis, living.

Additionally, the idea of extra-marital sex was startling. He had been raised with the Laws and Customs of the Eldar, and for some reason it had never occurred to him that those laws might not be as universal as he had assumed. 

It was a day for revelations, apparently. 

He ate the rest of his food silently.

* * *

More and more folk kept arriving, and it made Macalaurë nervous. He didn't feel safe with so many people around. Once he would have reveled in such a large gathering, showing off his musical talent and adoring the attention. But times changed, and he with them. 

After his conversation with Denweg, he couldn't help but find it easier to notice all of the… frolicking taking place. Paired with it to his horror, he lost count of the admiring glances and lingering looks he received. 

He stared miserably into the dancing flames of the central bonfire. The party was in full swing now, all the colored lanterns lit with exhortations of protection and respect. It occurred to Macalaurë that in his flustered state when he spoke to Denweg about the purpose of the festival, he only explained one of its two purposes- that of welcoming the early harvest and engaging in these bewildering sexual practices. Only now did he realize he had neglected to ask what its second purpose was.

He slowly slid away from reality, staring into the fire.

His body felt distant and alien.

He could almost see images dancing across the flame.

He had lost so much of his family to flame. First his youngest brother, then his father, then his eldest brother… 

Reality asserted itself jarringly fast when a firm hand landed on his shoulder. Macalaurë gasped and stifled a curse. He covered his eyes as he realized he had just about blinded himself staring into the fire like a fool, hissing softly in pain.

"Easy," a soft voice murmured, identified after a moment as Denethor. "Easy, it looks like you may have accidentally drifted into flame-scrying. A dangerous thing to do, especially on this holiday. Do you need me to fetch a dreamseer?" He asked, and Macalaurë shook his head tightly. 

"There's too many people." He gritted out tightly. "I can't-" he made a wordless noise of frustration. Words used to flow so easily to him. He had been a great orator as well as a composer and performer a lifetime ago. Now he couldn't even speak of what plagued him. 

Denethor swung him up into his arms, ignoring Macalaurë's cracking yelp. Macalaurë flushed, feeling overwhelmed by the warm arms around his shoulder and under his knees. He remained unsettled, but consented to be carried elsewhere given that his vision was too clouded by the afterimages of flame to see much of anything. They slid into a tent and Macalaurë heard some giggling not far off. Did someone think, perhaps, that Thor was carrying him off to be ravished? His face burned even redder. He was laid on the bed, and Denethor sat close by his side. 

"What possessed you to scry the flames, Macalaurë?" Thor asked, voice rough with concern. 

"I wasn't trying to. I didn't even know you _ could _. I thought scrying was for water and mirrors," he groaned softly, reaching up and trying to rub away his headache. Thor's fingers brushed them away, taking up the task instead with his own. As the strong yet gentle touch swept with a feather-light brush past his ears, Macalurë swallowed down a wholly inappropriate moan. 

"I understand. Still, that was dangerous," Thor said softly. Macalaurë huffed, put out by the scolding.

"Then tell me why. Your father only told me half the purpose of this festival, the whole- harvest aspect." He fumbled his words just a little. Thor paused, then sighed softly. Macalaurë rose up onto his elbows, cracking open fire-blinded eyes. An indignant protest sat upon his lips, but Denethor covered his eyes with a hand before he could speak it. 

"It's my own fault then. You two must have gotten distracted," He said easily, gently pushing Macalaurë back into a prone position. Macalaurë felt prickly and off balance. "It's a festival of respect for Dunspenn and Dunncogn." He said baldly, and that did make Macalaurë's aching eyes fly open, if more in sheer confusion. 

"What? _ Why?! _"

"Why do you respect a flooding river, or a rabid bear?" Denethor parried back. "Because he is dangerous. They're both dangerous, but Dunspenn is so tied up in fire that we have to pay respect to him. Without fire we have no way to keep ourselves warm in winter, no way to cook our food." He explained, and put that way it made sense. "Fire scrying, though, that makes you tread straight into his territory. He can seize your mind like that. Twist you, warp you. Make you into an urc." Macalaurë's mouth twisted into something wry and grieving. 

"According to you I'm half an orc already," He said bitterly. He hadn't forgotten that contemplation on kinslayers. "Besides, it's fitting. Fire has already taken so much of my family." A hand rested warm on his arm. 

"Will you tell me of it?" Denethor asked, careful and quiet. Macalaurë considered it. Thor was a neutral party. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could speak and be heard. It might draw off some measure of the poison of grief to speak of it. Despite his hopes, he warned himself that there was equal danger that laying down some of his burden would cause exactly the injury he was seeking to avoid. 

He hesitated for a long moment, but Denethor just sat quietly, hand still and warm against Macalaurë's arm. His heart felt as though it was being squeezed in an unmerciful grip, and he shuddered, lungs tight. 

"My brother was the first I lost to fire, but not the first I lost. He died in the burning of the ships, at Losgar. He was the youngest of us. My father I lost next, and he burned to ash from the inside out. I never knew if it was his own fëa that burned him, or some kind of terrible curse. My eldest brother was the last one taken by fire. He jumped into a volcano while Beleriand sank under the sea," Macalaurë recounted, voice soft and at the same time harsh, scraping the words from deep in his gut. Denethor squeezed his arm lightly and stayed silent, and Macalaurë thought he knew what he waited for. The beginning of the story. 

"The story rightfully starts when my grandfather, Finwë, and my grandmother, Míriel, chose to have a child. Through some quirk of fate, Míriel put too much of herself into my father, Fëanáro. The consequence therein meant she grew weary of living, and as she did she took herself to a hilltop, then laid down and died…"

The story was as long as it was painful. Macalaurë told it in fits and starts, occasionally falling into a gentle, rhythmic cadence. He spared none of the ugly horror in it, though he tried to add in the good times as well. It was hard to recall the gentleness of their lives when recounting the Oath, and how it had driven each of them mad in their own way. Or maybe it had been grief the whole time that condemned them further and further. 

Denethor sat, a silent witness to all of it, and Macalaurë felt pathetically grateful. 

"…and then as I witnessed what the Valar had done to Beleriand, though I knew it was because of the War, because of _ us _, I grew angry. I threw the last Silmaril into the sea, and I nearly threw myself in after it. I didn't though- cowardice stopped me, I suppose. I chose to journey the coastlines instead, lamenting, in the hope that I'd find a meaningful end at some point. A worthy sacrifice," He sighed, heavy and shaking. His chest felt lighter, though he felt wrung out, like an old dishrag set out to dry. Denethor finally moved, leaning forward and kissing Macalaurë's forehead gently. 

Macalaurë didn't understand, though the gesture made tears finally spring to his eyes. He finally risked opening them, his vision fully returned. Denethor was looking at him, sad and grave and strangely sympathetic. Not pitying, for he knew he knew the difference. What filled the Lindi’s eyes was genuine sympathy. 

"Why do you look like you understand?" He rasped out, tears spilling from his eyes to roll down into his hairline. Denethor shook his head gently. 

"I don't understand. I can't, not truly. I didn't live it. But that doesn't mean I cannot grieve with you, for the unceasing suffering that was laid upon your family. I cannot understand, but that does not mean I can't give you succor when you regret so clearly what you have done. When you seek forgiveness as you are." He smiled faintly. "I don't agree with the methods of your repentance, but that doesn’t mean you cannot repent." 

Macalaurë's sobs broke free at that, and he curled up into a ball, sobbing as though his heart were being ripped out all over again. Thor merely lay down next to him and gathered him into his arms until he cried himself to sleep.

* * *

"Everyone tells me you're shy, Macalaurë. You won't meet anyone's eyes for more than a few seconds, at best! Which is strange, given I do recall you meeting our eyes when we first, ah, captured you." Thor said brightly, swinging in to sit beside Macalaurë. Macalaurë startled, and Thor laid a pacifying hand on the Ñoldo's shoulder. "Peace, Macalaurë. I didn't mean to startle you."

"I'm sorry, it's fine," Macalaurë murmured, glancing at him for a bare moment before looking back away. Thor kind of understood what they meant now. Had something happened? 

"Are you?" He asked simply. Macalaurë's pretty ears flushed. 

"I- someone… propositioned me." He said softly, face flooded with a charming flush. "Her name was Felya, but that was literally the only thing I knew of her!"

"Was she comely?" He asked gamely, unsure what the issue was here. "She didn't press you, did she?" 

"I- no! Did- did your father not tell you what we talked about?" Macalaurë looked honestly bewildered. 

"If you spoke to him, it's like as not that he kept your confidence unless you told him outright he should share it." Thor noted. Macalaurë groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. 

"'Casual' sex," he used the term with such caution, as though afraid of using it improperly, "isn't a thing in my culture. Nor is multiple partners, or the dissolution of a marriage." It was Thor's turn to blink, bewildered. 

"I… see." He managed, flummoxed. He frowned. "How do your people pass on the knowledge of sex safely, then? Just by lessons?" Thor inquired. Macalaurë made a faint, strangled noise. 

"There are… books on the subject," Macalaurë said in a tight, strained voice. Thor raised a curious eyebrow. "How do you do it," he asked, somewhere between resigned, reluctant, and genuinely curious. 

"Well, it's a choice, really. Either they can learn from lessons, or they can take a mentor. Once a Lindi turns ninety, coming of age-" 

"Ñoldor come of age at one hundred," Macalaurë murmured then flushed, waving a hand. "Apologies." Thor shook his head fondly. 

"Once come of age, a Lindi adult may seek out an unattached, unrelated, older, more experienced adult, and request that they mentor them in the sexual arts. If the older adult accepts, they will remain monogamous to their trainee until the trainee wishes to dissolve the relationship. Generally speaking mentorships only last a few months, perhaps a year. Sometimes they also lead to marriage. Either party can, at any point, dissolve the mentorship." Thor explained. Macalaurë's face was quite the study, he thought, amused. 

"I see," he murmured, seemingly at a loss for anything else to say. A thought occurred to Thor. 

"Does this mean you've never actually had sex before?" He asked curiously, before belatedly realizing that it could be an offensive question in his culture, given how heavily regulated they sounded, as strange as that seemed to him. "You don't have to answer that- I meant no offense." He immediately backed off, a hand raising in and instinctive placatory gesture. Macalaurë turned spectacularly red in the face. 

"I- no, I mean, I've kissed a couple of people, but I haven't had sex before." He muttered, burying his face in his hands. Thor almost set a conciliatory hand on his shoulder before realizing he might not want to be touched. 

"There's no shame in it, especially if it's the normal thing for your people." Thor assured, not quite sure what to say. 

"It's so strange, that you just talk about this kind of thing so casually," he mumbled into his hands. Macalaurë rubbed his hand over his face fiercely before sighing and sitting back up. "It doesn't help that I still feel very awkward about the other day," he admits quietly, looking up at the stars. Thor smiled faintly.

"You asked me, right after we met, why I called myself foolhardy," he started softly, wry. Macalaurë's head tipped toward him, listening. "It's not just me- the whole incident was named, by my people, as Denethor's Folly. A lesson in why our people do not go to war." Thor thought it a fair trade, Macalaurë's story for his own. 

"You don't go to war? But you speak of fighting orcs all the time!" Macalaurë protested. 

"Ah, but there's a difference between defending yourself and your own from an immediate threat and going to specifically seek out that threat to fight it. Or being so attached to one place that you cannot pick up and flee when the yrc come in force and rebuild elsewhere when you're clear. There are problems in my peoples' philosophy, I would be the first to admit it. That is why I came to Thingol's aid in the first place. But there are also merits to it. I took our people to war, and many of us died for it. _ I _ died for it. I don't think even Thingol expected how quickly the yrc swept through us. We were underprepared, and the yrc were simply more advanced than us." Thor sighed, eyes fixed on some distant point. 

"I had been meaning to ask- why do you have no metal works? All the metal I've seen seems to be of dwarvish make." Macalaurë asked, seeming slightly hesitant. 

"We can trade with the dwarves, yes. But beyond what little we can make ourselves and trade for, no, we don't have metal-workers. To work the earth's blood you must first extract it in large quantities- I believe you call this mining. We have never been safe enough to do this. To mine you have to be sedentary, and to be sedentary is a death sentence." His expression took on a wry and tired form. Macalaurë looked troubled, but subsided into silence. 

"Is there any way? That we can be forgiven. That our names might no longer be cursed?" Macalaurë asked softly, voice choked with oncoming tears. Here Denethor smiled, wrapping an arm around Macalaurë's shoulders and drawing him in close. Macalaurë made a soft, surprised noise. The Lindi found it darling to hear. 

"If you work to show that you regret your actions, to show the people around you that you have changed, that you're working to be a better person, it's definitely possible." He said confidently. "I've already started the process. I came out of the skyless halls you call Mandos with a second chance. I joined the host of your Valar when I heard they were returning to my homeland, and then I tricked the mighty Dunncogn into riding to warn the people who had not already fled from the war. His presence itself was enough warning that they all ran who saw him, and were saved from the waters that drowned Beleriand. And after that, I brought my people together and delivered us all to the Vales of the Anduin. From there we met with my father and his people and moved here." Thor smiled at the memory, a feeling of triumph within him.

"That's- really amazing," Macalaurë murmured, eyes bright with a glint of hope in their depths. He frowned a little. "Who's Dunncogn again? You explained Dunspenn, but not the other." 

"Oh, he's the hunter. The one who stole away the Lost Ones to their, ah, false paradise," Thor looked sheepish as he told him, aware Macalaurë wouldn't see it the same way. "I think you name him Oromë?" Macalaurë's jaw dropped and then, inexplicably, he began to laugh. Not quiet chuckles either, but a heaving laughter that shook his whole body and brought tears to his eyes. His laughter brought a bright grin to Thor's face, and he admired the rare look of happiness on Macalaurë's's lovely face. Really, there was no wonder he was getting hopeful suitors- he was a beautiful elf. "Did I say something funny then?" He asked lightly. Macalaurë shook his head, wiping tears from his eyes.

"No, please forgive me," he hiccuped out, "I just pictured my brother's face if he could have heard that. Turco was a devotee of Oromë's you see, and that's just so funny!" He trailed off into more soft, wheezy giggles, and Thor drew him a little closer, wishing he could kiss that merry mouth. They had grown easier in each other's company, over this past week, but according to Macalaurë's culture it wouldn't be enough. Nevertheless there was no sin in asking, surely?

"You look lovely as the starlight when you laugh," he said whimsically. Macalaurë looked over at him, blushing again, but still smiling. "I'd like to kiss you, if I may," he said seriously, smoothing a lock of hair that had escaped his braids back over his head. Macalaurë looked almost transfixed. 

"I- I think I'd like that," he whispered. Thor smiled brightly, and leaned in, fitting their mouths together softly, adoring the way Macalaurë pressed into the touch, soft and needy. He was like that with each and every touch he was granted; something within him was hungry for contact, a lean, starved thing. Thor traced his bottom lip delicately with his tongue, and was delighted when Macalaurë opened for him. He delighted in the half squeak, half moan that passed from Macalurë’s throat. He pressed forward, chasing the hidden sweetness of the Ñoldo's mouth, sliding their tongues together in a sensual embrace. When he pulled back, Macalaurë was wide-eyed and short of breath, touching his slick, pretty lips, almost shocked. 

"Was that all right?" Thor asked, wondering if he'd overstepped somehow. Macalaurë nodded, still looking a bit surprised. 

"Yes. I've just never kissed quite like that before. Macalaurë admitted breathily. "It was always close-mouthed. I'd never have imagined…" he colored prettily again, his breathlessness betraying his anticipation for more. He leaned forward ever so slightly, hoping the silent wish would be granted. Thor obliged him, closing the gap and kissing him again. 

"Take it somewhere private Thor!" Someone called from behind them, and Macalaurë jerked back in his arms as though he had been burned. Thor didn't let him go, as something within him let loose the wild fear that he might never see him again if he did. With his newfound lover safe and secure Thor scowled over his shoulder. 

"Like you haven't kissed a beautiful elf in public before, Neldor!" He returned the jibe, and smiled at Macalaurë. "Sorry about him. He's just jealous I get to kiss the prettiest elf at the festival," he winked, and he was never going to get over making Macalaurë blush like that. "Let's walk," he offered, and laughed at Macalaurë's skeptical look. "Only a walk, I swear. Unless you want something more, I shan't press you." 

They exchanged more kisses on their stroll, and stories about the stars. Thor was true to his word, and initiated nothing more intimate than that. Macalaurë stayed up as he went to bed, well pleased by their time spent together.

He woke to another body pressed tight against him, a slightly fumbling kiss pressed to his mouth. 

"You said I had to initiate it, right?" Macalaurë's voice was soft and hesitant in the darkness of the tent, and Thor lifted his arms to embrace him. "I haven't laughed like that in decades. I think I was mired in- in self pity masquerading as repentance. You helped me see that." Thor smiled up at him, the eerie glow of Macalaurë's eyes oddly comforting, even in their strangeness. 

"Are you certain?" Thor murmured, voice heavy with sleep. 

"I am. I want to know. You've made me _ feel _, for the first time in ages, something other than distant grief. Is that- is that a bad reason?" He asked, suddenly unsure.

"Not at all." Thor murmured, and kissed him again. Macalaurë pulled back after a moment, oddly breathless, until a faint song fell from his lips. Practically whispered, Macalaurë sang about gratitude and curiosity, about realizing he was stuck in a deep pit, and how Thor had reached a hand down to him, and helped him scramble back up into the sunlight. Thor was moved to tears by the bare, lovely melody. 

"I would do it again in a heartbeat, darling Macalaurë. Things may have started between us as suspicion, but I find you precious to me now. My only regret is I have no great gift for song to tell you so." 

"You don't need one. Your actions have shown your true character," Macalaurë promised, wiping the tears from Thor's cheeks. "Sometimes I just communicate better through song." 

"And a beautiful song it was," Thor praised before kissing him. He sat up and shucked his shirt, coaxing Macalaurë's up and off too, though he kept it strangely wound around his left arm. "What's this, then?" Thor asked carefully, setting a gentle hand on the fabric. Macalaurë looked down awkwardly at the wrapped arm. 

"Do you recall how I said the Silmaril burned me, before I cast it into the ocean?" He asked hesitantly. Thor nodded. "It scarred me with its light," he confessed. With that said he unwrapped the shirt and pulled off the fine leather gloves that Thor only just realized he'd never seen Macalaurë without. He turned up his palm to Thor, and he was stricken speechless by the beauty of the pain etched into Macalaurë's skin. In his palm was a rough oval, and branching out from it patterns branched like scars from a lightning strike, reaching nearly up to his elbow. They all pulsed with a white, rainbowed light, like the colors of the gemstone the dwarves called opal, in time with Macalaurë's heartbeat.

"Oh, my darling," Thor murmured, folding his hands over Macalaurë's. "Does it still hurt you?" He asked, worried. Macalaurë shrugged at the rhetorical question.

"Yes. I suspect it will my whole life. It shouldn't harm you but tell me at once if it does, I beg you." Macalaurë insisted, sharp and urgent. Thor nodded easily, kissing the scarred knuckles. Macalaurë eased, and Thor decided to change the subject, reaching away into his satchel for his small jar of oil, and a length of canvas to protect the furs of their bed from their coupling. Macalaurë watched him curiously. 

"Oil?" He asked lightly. An impish smile crossed Thor’s lips. 

"To ease the way," he remarked, and enjoyed the dark spread of Macalaurë's blush. "Though that brings me to a point. There's more than the way you’re likely familiar with to do this. I could use my mouth or my hands on you, and it would be equally pleasurable. The choice is yours, if you want to, though, would you prefer the giving, or the receiving?" Thor explained, taking care to guide his new lover through this gently.

"I'm not sure," Macalaurë said after a moment. "But perhaps those other methods you proposed would be nice?" He asked lightly. Thor nodded easily, urging him to move a little so he could spread the canvas over the furs. 

"Some other time then. Come here," he murmured, and helped Macalaurë lie down on the bed. He set the oil aside for the moment, and smiled down at Macalaurë. "Do you trust me to make you feel good?" He asked, resting a warm hand on Macalaurë's thigh. Macalaurë nodded wordlessly, expression a little nervous. Thor shoved off his own breeches, before starting on the laces of Macalaurë's own at a much slower and more sensual pace. He kissed at the skin of Macalaurë's low belly, pushing the fine leather down his hips before moving to his thighs. He laid biting, worshipful kisses over the skin there, even as Macalaurë kicked fully out of his breeches to leave himself bare as Thor. He listened to Macalaurë's shuddering breaths and watched his erection rise, smirking against the tender skin of his inner thigh. 

Finally he abandoned the worship of his thighs, and propped himself on one elbow between his legs. Denethor slid his free hand up Macalaure's thigh as a gentle warning of what was to come before gently gripping his cock, stroking it gently. Macalaurë moaned shakily, singing music of a different kind, one everyone knew how to do. Thor kissed the tip of his cock, licking away a salty pearl of precome. Macalaurë gasped, his hands gripping the canvas under them tightly. 

"You can tug on my hair, darling. Just be careful of my braids," he suggested. Macalaurë carefully stroked his thick brown hair, petting the shaved sides of his head curiously. Thor smiled up at him before taking the head of his cock into his mouth fully. Macalaurë gasped sharply again, and his hands clutched urgently at Thor's hair. Thor set a steady pace; as much as he wanted to tease Macalaurë's orgasm out of him, there would hopefully be time for that later. He teased the hot, heavy shaft with his tongue, his hand stroking the base gently in time with his lips and tongue, only letting into his mouth that which would fit comfortably. He closed his lips around Macalaurë and sucked, pulling almost all the way back off, and relished in Macalaurë's soft cry of ecstasy. He wasn't going to last long, but that was the way of those who hadn't had sex before, and not something that bothered Thor. Stamina came with time, after all. 

He was right, and Macalaurë came with another tight cry that was almost words, as though trying to warn Thor of his impending orgasm. Sweet of him. Thor eased him through his orgasm, swallowing his release and cleaning his cock with his tongue before letting him fall from his mouth. Macalaurë was beautiful in his post-orgasmic haze, and Thor slid up beside him to kiss his throat and jawline delicately. 

"What about you?" Macalaurë finally asked, when he had floated back down into reality, one hand twisting to gently grasp Thor's own aching cock. Thor shivered and moaned against Macalaurë's throat. 

"I’d like to claim the space between your thighs, if you would let me," he murmured, caressing Macalaure there with a careful hand. He very gently bit the shell of Macalaure's ear and was rewarded with a soft, pleasured gasp. 

"All right," Macalaurë said softly, turning his head and kissing Thor's mouth warmly. Thor smiled into the kiss, and gently urged Macalaurë up onto his hands and knees, slicking this thighs with the oil, and spreading more over his own cock. He positioned himself behind Macalaurë, draping himself over that long, lovely back, and pressed his cock between those lovely thighs. 

"Press them close together, darling," Thor murmured, and moaned softly when Macalaurë obeyed. He set a slow rhythm at first, every inward thrust nudging at Macalaurë's sac, urging him back into full hardness. Once Macalaurë was moaning as much as Thor was he twisted an arm around him and stroked in time with his thrusts. The hot, slick slide was unbearably good, Macalaure's thighs muscled enough to squeeze him very sweetly indeed. Their bodies were slick with sweat, and the air hung heavy with the scent and sounds of sex. Macalaurë came again with another of those sweet, sharp cries, arms buckling under him to land in the bedding, making a beautiful curve of his back. Thor came too at the sight, beautiful and vulnerable below him. 

Thor had the presence of mind to grab a soft scrap of fabric to clean away the evidence of their lovemaking from their skin, then folded away the canvas cover so that they could curl together, spent and happy and dozing, among the furs of their bedding. 

"Thank you," Macalaurë murmured into the warm darkness. Thor kissed the soft, vulnerable spot behind his ear. 

"It was my pleasure," he promised. 

* * *

"The festival ends tonight," Thor murmured, stroking Macalaurë's long, dark hair back behind his ear. "Where will you go?" If he sounded a touch wistful, he hoped Macalaurë could not hear it. 

"I had thought…" Macalaurë trailed off, eyes darting away shyly. 

"Yes, darling?" Thor asked, ever patient. 

"I had thought I might go with you, to your home. If you would have me." He asked softly. Thor smiled with a brightness that shone through in the dark of the tent. 

"Nothing would make me happier," he assured Macalaurë, bringing him close into an embrace. "But only if you are certain. You are no captive of mine or anyone else." 

"I am sure. I want to stay with you Thor," Macalaurë murmured, and leaned in to kiss him sweetly. Thor smiled and leaned into the kiss, his heart content. 

* * *

"I want to go see my son, Elrond." Macalaurë said, tension threading his shoulders tight and uncomfortable. Thor looked up, smiling on reflex at the sight of him. Macalaurë still hadn't gotten used to that reaction, despite nearly two years now as Thor's lover-turned-husband.

"That sounds good. When do we leave?" He asked, setting down his carving tools and standing.

"Are you certain we should go?" Macalaurë asked, fear still clutching at his chest. Thor gave him a warm smile, drew him into a loose embrace. 

"I believe it would be good for you, Cano, and I'm glad you came to this decision." Thor assured him. "And you told me he had been abandoned once already, by his birth parents. It would be good for him too, perhaps, though I'm less certain on that front. We can find out together." It remained unspoken that if Macalaurë were asked to leave, Thor would accompany him faithfully. 

"Indeed. I'm just… still afraid. That I'll do more harm than good. That I'll hurt him, like my family has hurt so many," he said with soft worry, tucking his face into the crook of Thor's neck. Thor stroked his hair soothingly. 

"I know. But if you don't try, you'll never be able to show people your progress. You'll still be cursed and reviled instead of being able to show people that you're growing and changing. That you're trying to repent for the mistakes of your family." Thor told him seriously. Macalaurë laughed, a dampness forming at the corners of his eyes. 

"It never ceases to amaze me, what faith you hold in me." He said with awe, lifting his head to kiss Thor gently. 

"That's what you need. Someone who wholeheartedly believes you can change. And so, that is what I will do for you. I love you, after all." Thor said, solemn as an oath. Macalaurë's tears flowed a little faster, and his breath hitched. 

"I don’t think I could ever fathom it, the love you have for me." He said thickly, wiping his cheeks ineffectually. Thor smiled at him gently. 

"That's why I will say it again and again. You are a person, deserving of love." He said, confident and unwavering. "Now, let us go and see your son, this Elrond you speak so highly of." 

"Yes. Let us go," Macalaurë agreed, taking Thor's hand in his. No matter the outcome, he would still have Thor. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!!
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